into a kitchen chair.
"Some more coffee, Momma," he said, and held up a cup.
"Sorry," said Cohen, taking the cup away, "but we can't allow any more of that."
Yablonski looked surprised. "McCarthy even pours it for me!"
"Uh-huh," said Cohen, "and what do you suppose he puts in it first?"
Yablonski blinked. "He wouldn't!"
"We'll find out, Mr. Yablonski. Now, I'd like to brief you on what we'll be doing. We're going to give you Zethacide-B. Do you know what that is?"
"No."
"It's like Sodium Pentothal—truth serum. It's going to have something of an opposite effect to what your Dr. McCarthy has been doing. Instead of closing the mental wound, so to speak, we'll be opening it up, exposing it and probing it, and we hope the end result will be elimination He paused and gave Hammond a here-goes glance. "If you have any doubts or questions, feel free to express them now."
Yablonski met his gaze. "Is this really going to help me?" he asked.
"Positively," Cohen hoped.
Yablonski granted and got up. "Where do we do it?"
"Your bedroom, I think, since that seems to be the scene of the recurring crime."
Slater went first with his equipment and Yablonski followed him. Cohen paused for a whisper with Hammond: "Give us fifteen minutes to get him under, then come on up. And get Momma out of the house."
Hammond watched the parade file up the stain, then moved to take charge of Mrs. Yablonski. He went straight for the coffee and gave her a reassuring smile. She smiled back shakily, then asked, "Is he going to be all right?"
"Yes, ma'am. He's in better hands now than he's ever been."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, ma'am." Hammond went to the kitchen door, sipping his coffee. "Mrs. Yablonski, why don't you take a walk around the pond. A long, slow walk. There's nothing you can do here right now."
"You're probably right," she sighed after a moment. She hesitated, looking upstairs, then she turned and went out the door.
Hammond waited until he could see her starting around the pond, hands thrust into the pockets of her sweater, eyes glued to the ground ahead, then he relaxed and finished his coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, he went upstairs.
The curtains were drawn and Yablonski was stretched out on the bed, his right pajama sleeve rolled up. They had removed the bathrobe. Cohen sat-beside him on a chair, taking his pulse and watching his eyes, now and then rolling back the lids to check his submission to the drug. Slater was in another chair where he had set up his portable recording studio: a collapsing table and a Uher CR-134 cassette deck. He had positioned an omni-directional microphone on a stand over the bed. He was wearing headphones and he nodded as Hammond came over.
After a moment, Cohen whispered, "He's under."
Hammond removed his uniform coat and pulled three sheets of paper from the inside pocket. He gave them to Cohen. "You handle the first page," he said, and tossed his coat on a rocking chair.
Cohen studied the questions. "Have to wing it a bit," he said softly. He bent over Yablonski and quietly said, "Cas...can you hear me?"
Yablonski's head rolled barely an inch and his mouth opened.
...Yes..."
"I'm your friend, Cas. I'm Cohen."
"...Friend..."
"That's right. And there are other friends here. Everyone in this room is a friend. Am I your friend?"
"...Yes...friend..."
"And you can tell a friend anything, can't you, Cas?"
"...Yes..."
"Are you comfortable, Cas? Just nod."
Yablonski nodded.
"Do you feel sleepy?" Yablonski nodded again. "Do you like being asleep?"
Yablonski hesitated. His nod was not convincing.
"You're not sure about that, are you, Cas?"
"...No."
"Do you have trouble sleeping?"
"...Yes."
Yablonski shifted his lower body, as if he were trying to get comfortable.
"You don't like going to sleep, do you?" Yablonski nodded. "You go to bed late?"
"...Yes."
"How late? Later than your wife?" Yablonski nodded. He was tossing and turning. "You like to put it off as long as
"Some more coffee, Momma," he said, and held up a cup.
"Sorry," said Cohen, taking the cup away, "but we can't allow any more of that."
Yablonski looked surprised. "McCarthy even pours it for me!"
"Uh-huh," said Cohen, "and what do you suppose he puts in it first?"
Yablonski blinked. "He wouldn't!"
"We'll find out, Mr. Yablonski. Now, I'd like to brief you on what we'll be doing. We're going to give you Zethacide-B. Do you know what that is?"
"No."
"It's like Sodium Pentothal—truth serum. It's going to have something of an opposite effect to what your Dr. McCarthy has been doing. Instead of closing the mental wound, so to speak, we'll be opening it up, exposing it and probing it, and we hope the end result will be elimination He paused and gave Hammond a here-goes glance. "If you have any doubts or questions, feel free to express them now."
Yablonski met his gaze. "Is this really going to help me?" he asked.
"Positively," Cohen hoped.
Yablonski granted and got up. "Where do we do it?"
"Your bedroom, I think, since that seems to be the scene of the recurring crime."
Slater went first with his equipment and Yablonski followed him. Cohen paused for a whisper with Hammond: "Give us fifteen minutes to get him under, then come on up. And get Momma out of the house."
Hammond watched the parade file up the stain, then moved to take charge of Mrs. Yablonski. He went straight for the coffee and gave her a reassuring smile. She smiled back shakily, then asked, "Is he going to be all right?"
"Yes, ma'am. He's in better hands now than he's ever been."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, ma'am." Hammond went to the kitchen door, sipping his coffee. "Mrs. Yablonski, why don't you take a walk around the pond. A long, slow walk. There's nothing you can do here right now."
"You're probably right," she sighed after a moment. She hesitated, looking upstairs, then she turned and went out the door.
Hammond waited until he could see her starting around the pond, hands thrust into the pockets of her sweater, eyes glued to the ground ahead, then he relaxed and finished his coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, he went upstairs.
The curtains were drawn and Yablonski was stretched out on the bed, his right pajama sleeve rolled up. They had removed the bathrobe. Cohen sat-beside him on a chair, taking his pulse and watching his eyes, now and then rolling back the lids to check his submission to the drug. Slater was in another chair where he had set up his portable recording studio: a collapsing table and a Uher CR-134 cassette deck. He had positioned an omni-directional microphone on a stand over the bed. He was wearing headphones and he nodded as Hammond came over.
After a moment, Cohen whispered, "He's under."
Hammond removed his uniform coat and pulled three sheets of paper from the inside pocket. He gave them to Cohen. "You handle the first page," he said, and tossed his coat on a rocking chair.
Cohen studied the questions. "Have to wing it a bit," he said softly. He bent over Yablonski and quietly said, "Cas...can you hear me?"
Yablonski's head rolled barely an inch and his mouth opened.
...Yes..."
"I'm your friend, Cas. I'm Cohen."
"...Friend..."
"That's right. And there are other friends here. Everyone in this room is a friend. Am I your friend?"
"...Yes...friend..."
"And you can tell a friend anything, can't you, Cas?"
"...Yes..."
"Are you comfortable, Cas? Just nod."
Yablonski nodded.
"Do you feel sleepy?" Yablonski nodded again. "Do you like being asleep?"
Yablonski hesitated. His nod was not convincing.
"You're not sure about that, are you, Cas?"
"...No."
"Do you have trouble sleeping?"
"...Yes."
Yablonski shifted his lower body, as if he were trying to get comfortable.
"You don't like going to sleep, do you?" Yablonski nodded. "You go to bed late?"
"...Yes."
"How late? Later than your wife?" Yablonski nodded. He was tossing and turning. "You like to put it off as long as
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